The Mapgie's cunning
by The-lost-wayne
Summary: Bruce Wayne's prodigal daughter has returned. The child he sent away for her own protection is back in Gotham and intent on making a place for herself in Gotham. Helena Wayne is ready.
**So this is my first story. Oh, I'm getting all emotion. Feels like I'm releasing a baby panda into the world. Well, enjoy.**

 **I don't down Batman, I'm afraid.**

Gotham: a land of crime and filth. Also my home town. Just being here, breathing in the deep city smog, ignites a fire in my veins. The train flees the station with a drawn out screech, abandoning me and a handful of other brave but weary travellers. Before us the city runs through the motions, dragging her feet as she attempts to pull herself from the downward spiral that is older than I. My trio of suitcases attempting to stop me with every step, I trudge through the square pools of light that dot the dark pavement. Litter and drunks collect in the gutter and their growing piles are watched by a corrupt cop, safely cooped away in his warm squad car. He eyes me for a second, my bags, my grimy face and tatty clothes. Never dress well in the Narrows.

It takes me ten minutes to find a taxi – lurking in the shadows of its hunting grounds. Even as I speak to the driver, dubstep and party goers stumble from one of the nearby nightclubs. The taxi driver rolls down his window for me and slides his old eyes down to my bags.

"Where to, lassie?" he asks, his voice the rough tones of a smoker.

"Wayne Manor." I reply, bold as the Bat-signal in the sky.

Taking a second to scan me once more, the drive pulls out into the road. Suspension creaking as the car crawls over uneven tarmac, I barely hear the driver as he speaks.

"Don't look like a Palaside kid." he mumbles.

"I'm going to see the butler."

.

Wayne Manor watches as I unload my bags from the boot of the battered yellow taxi. The dark figures of gargoyles whisper about me while I work and only fall silent as I cast a glare in their direction. The driver helps with two of my suitcases, a fortunate by-product of telling him to keep the change. Although it only means that neither of us trip as we trek over the driveway, I appreciate it.

"Thanks." I nod as the death-black door towers above me.

It devours my first knock and almost kills my second. The taxi driver offers me a half-smile before he shuffles back into the sanctuary of his rusting office. My third knock brings feeling back into my freezing knuckles and a disgruntled hum to my lips. Someone has slipped the signal away – he's probably in the cave. With my final knock failing to draw an answer, I call the phone and listen for the homely British accent to welcome me.

"Mr Wayne's residence."

"Alfred, it's me."

The old man gives me a hum before offering me the compulsory question of my health. Fearful the discussion would fall to Gotham's terrible weather, I tell him I'm outside.

.

Alfred looks as old as I remember him, as old as he's always been. His crisp suit, although perfectly tailored, somehow hangs from his tall narrow form; it's still immaculate. He leaves the dishcloth he was holding upon a nearby table as we enter the lounge. The room around me is of little interest, more like a cold museum than a house, but there are still phantoms there that assure me it is still the same place that flickers through my memories every time I think of Gotham. The sofa lays in front of the television and an antique coffee table stands straight in the centre of a room. Resting upon it, at perfect right angles, are two remotes and a television magazine. Red walls are occasionally broken by bookshelf sky scrapers and photographs and paintings dance between them. The chandelier watches us from the heavens with its angelic shine. Soon I have offered the room the uniform reverent silence and allow my attention to fall back to the butler in front of me. Once more his disapproving gaze lands upon me and I feel the ghost of a cookie jar form a glove around my hand. An apology is already forming upon my lips.

"Why are you here, Miss Helena?" he asks, shaking his head to cast away all judgement.

I draw in a long breath, trying to bring in all the sections of my story so I could compile them

"My dad seemed to be in the family way. I was wanting for my invitation but you know what the postal service is like so I decided to show up myself."

"Does your aunt know you are here?"

There is the smallest of smiles upon my lips as I shake my head. Alfred says nothing; he expects this behaviour from me. If nothing else, it's genetic. From which parent though, I am not sure.

"I will go and call her to tell her you are safe. Shall I also call your mother and tell her you are visiting?"

"No, I'll tell her in the morning. Is my dad in?" I ask, tapping my foot against the expensive carpet.

Alfred winces – I'm still wearing my shoes.

"I'm afraid he and the young man I assume you have come to meet are both out. Perhaps you should change into some other clothes if you intend to wait up for them. I must go and call your aunt."

.

The sofa is like I remember it, warm and too large to actually fit anyone but hopelessly welcoming. I curl up against one arm, dressed in my winter pyjamas and cloaked in a blanket. There's a towel holding my damp hair from my face and the dirt I had allowed to gather around my features – a mask to get me through the city without anyone questioning it – disappeared down the plug hole with the rest of the bath water. Along my hands to stray over the soft fabric I'm sitting on, I search for the remote. The flat screen is not quite as impressive as I remember. But I've grown and, probably by Alfred's insistence, the television hasn't. It's a different make with a build in DVD player and surround sound and definition so high it'll beat ever dictionary out there. And it's 3-D equipped. I take it back: it's impressive.

I haven't returned to my room yet – a bedroom untouched since I was five years old. Alfred disappeared off to place my bags in there while I went and showered but I had stolen a change of clothes and decided to hide from my memories. And the best thing I can think of is whatever Gotham shows on telly this late at night.

The first thing that comes up is The G. Gordon Godfrey Show. I listen for long enough to understand who he's talking about: the Flash (who actually moans about the Flash?), before I change the channel. A prim and proper news reader welcomes me in as she clears her throat, about to begin another story. She begins to talk about a high society function and, despite the dullness of it all, I soak in all the information. Some millionaire recently decided to slip a ring on the finger of his model gold-digger girlfriend and is hosting a celebration about it. Maybe my dad's not out getting himself beaten to a pulp after all.

I slip the towel from my head and begin to rub thick stands of my long black hair between the white material. Alfred's voice comes through from the next room with the tone of voice he usually reserves for planning. He's talking about what to do with me. I strain to catch the schemes, praying I will not be shipped back to Metropolis the moment my dad decides to grace the manor with his presence.

"I'm afraid there is a society function taking place this evening. Master Bruce has not returned and I am unsure of when he will be doing so. I only hope it is soon, the young master is with him."

Aunt Maggie doesn't know about what my father does. She knows about mum, being her sister and all, but not about what my dad does. She knows he's Bruce Wayne but not anything more.

Deciding my fate is not safe, I turn my attention back to the telly. The news story has changed – Arkham Breakouts. The screen flicks to a handsome man standing on the stage in a press conference and I find myself reading the man's name as it appears on the screen. DA Harvey Dent.

"As Arnold Wesker was among the criminals who engaged in the break out the DA's office has decided that his appeal for freedom will be halted. Already there has been an offer by Maroni's lawyers to move his trail forwards. This is being considered. Not further questions." the man says before disappearing off the stage and being replaced by Commissioner Gordon.

Before the man had chance to speak however, the screen begins to jump about. I frown as the entire image dissolves into static. Black and white squares crawling over the television for a few moments, a horrifying sight suddenly replaced them. Penguin stares out at me, eyes glinting with dark glee. His quacking laughter fills the airwaves as he moves back and gestures behind him. And there, trapped in individual cages with their hands tied behind them and their mouths gagged, are Batman, Batgirl and Robin. Each hero looks dishevelled, bruised and weak. Blood is slowly leaking from one of Robin's arms and a dark stain is decorating Batgirl's tights. Batman's breathing is laboured and each exhale brings a wince to his face – a broken rib?

"Oh no." I breathe, loud enough to attract Alfred's attention.

He moves into the room and glances at the screen. Turning white, he tells my aunt that he'll have to ring back alter.

"Have I got a show for you tonight, Gotham! You have the chance to watch me deal with the bat problem once and for all."

Penguin swings his umbrella around for effect and the camera zooms out to show that the three cages are hanging over a large vat of bubbling gold. Machinery clunks around in the background of the footage and the windows in the background show only pitch black. Then something flashes up in the windows. Five seconds and it flashes up again.

"This is my replica of the Wisdon Bird factory – the one that has been making the golden birds Gotham's pesky heroes have been so keen to keep out of my hands. Unless I have all a hundred of them by sunrise, Batman, Batgirl and Robin will be golden plated."

I get to my feet.

"I can't… I can't watch this."

That's it: let him think you have no stomach for any of this.

I announce I need to lie down. Alfred doesn't question me. His focus is on the telly and the man he raised as his own. But we both know he's hoping the young woman slipping meekly upstairs is the real, grown up me. It's a false hope.

.

My room has not been used since I was five years old and, with the skies raging outside, there is no way to open a window. But the air isn't stagnant and the empty furniture isn't dressed in dust. The bed is neatly made and the few objects I left behind are in perfect condition. The green walls still support hooks for paintings and the red, blue and black marks left from when my painted hands attacked the walls still play about the room. Unable to stop myself, I kneel down and press my hand over one, finding how much bigger it is. Closing my eyes, I get to my feet and silently thank Alfred for never painting over them.

My bags linger beside my bed. I snap out of the world of reminiscence to hurry over and search through them. I find my prize purposefully tangled amongst a thick winter jumper and smile at the black and white leather that greets me. Slowly I pick apart the two pieces of clothing, freeing my costume from my jumper. The leather is light in my hands and easily slides apart from the jumper. Keeping my costume, I disregard everything else and begin to pull my costume on in the place of my pyjamas. Black leather trousers, white boots, white top with black gloves and a black cape each slip on. My belt rests gently over my hips and the slight weight it has is reassuring that I am prepared for what I am about to do. I slowly place my black domino mask on my face and glance towards the mirror fitted to the outside of my empty wardrobe. I am no longer Helena Wayne, Bruce Wayne's prodigal daughter. Now I am Magpie.

.

Penguin made a fatal flaw in showing the city those clips. He assumes he's got all the Bats in Gotham locked away in his base but he's wrong and his video clip gave me a clue about where he is. Gotham's a dock town and it's a dock town with criminals. When a rash of piracy started up just outside of the warehouse district, the police fitted one of the port towers with a light to help spot any pirates. The scheme was pretty quickly abandoned but some clever kid wired up the light to spin around at night and it completes a rotation once every five seconds. People call it Gotham's Lighthouse and some Metropolis journalist – Lane or someone – wrote a piece about it a few weeks back because the city council want to shut it down.

But Pengy's near it. His footage confirmed it.

So I take up my position on the Lighthouse and watch the city. A spread of warehouses forms a no-man's-land in front of me and I watch with apprehension to find out which is giving out light. The city spies on me with apprehension and the fates set the odds on whether Gotham will have a single hero standing by dawn. I can only hope they favour the underdog. A clanking, clunking noise carries in the air and I instantly know that I have found my target. Praying that the Lex Corp tech I have will work, I leap from my perch and into the night air.

.

Soon I stand on the roof of Penguin's base. The clanking of his machines is painfully loud and I can hear his usual squawking calls piercing in the cold night air. Two chimneys share the roof with me, lurking off near the edge and spilling out a dark smudge of smoke that quickly gets lost in the blackness of the starless sky. Gotham's Lighthouse casts a glow over the entire docks and blinds me when my masked eyes meet it. Glancing towards the skyline, I see I have a while until dawn even considers opening its eyes. So, hooking my grapple around a chimney stack upon the roof, I slowly lower myself down and look in through the window. A factory is laid out before me with furnaces roaring like terrible beasts and a swamp of liquid gold bubbling. Still caged, Gotham's three musketeers are testing their ropes, hoping that one of them could slip a hand free. Penguin and his men are relaxing, feet up on a table. Each man is holding a hand of cards; the gang's leader is cheating at whatever game they are playing. It's clear they criminals are confident about this: Batman and his sidekicks are captured, the police are never going to risk the heroes and it seems like no one in Gotham is ever going to come to their aid.

But I'm here and ready.

I begin to climb up the wall again, manoeuvring myself so I stand above the window. Jumping, I allow some of my line to rush through my fingers. My feet collide with the window and shatter it with a loud smashing scream. Glass sprays about and cries of shock and anger fill the air. A dark grin flourishing over my features, I pounce upon the nearest of Penguin's thugs before he can slip out the gun tucked into his waist band. The next thug collects his weapon with lightning speed and I quickly run the calculations in my head before judo throwing him over my shoulder and into the stomach of the first man. Both are down. There are four of Penguin's men remaining and I race forwards, deciding offense is the best defence. I slam into the next man and use him as a springboard to land upon the chest of another. Neither were expecting that sort of attack. They hit the factory floor hard and their eyes slip closed. Four down, two to go. And then the Penguin.

I flip out of the path of a flick knife and scan the area for something I can use. Just as the blade swings at me once more, I grab a handful of playing cards and throw them towards the man, blocking his vision long enough for me to tackle his legs and bring him down. He releases the knife after his wrist has a few rapid meetings with the floor and I send the blade flying out of the battle. Just as I am about to stand, a sharp point digs into the back of my neck. Penguin. I tip my hand back and listen as the fat man instructs me to stand, his quacking laughter filling the air. Slowly I get to my feet, assessing my surroundings. While my body goes into overdrive, my mind stays clear, whispering to me that I'm going to be fine.

"Turn around, slowly." Penguin instructs.

I obey, knowing that it is easy to attack when you see the guy you're attacking. He's got one guy left but I'm pretty sure Pengy is the sort of guy whose thugs run out on him when he's down.

"What's your name?" the crime lord asks, the tip of his umbrella pressing under my chin and tipping my head back so he can study me.

I answer him and this draws more quacked chuckles from him. He nods to his final man, ordering him to throw me in with the other bird. Penguin slowly recoils his umbrella tip as his thug reaches out to restrain me. There's a millisecond where I am not in anyone's grasp and I use it with a vengeance. Elbowing backwards, I take out the final man. My arm collides with his throat, rendering him a choking, gasping heap. Penguin reacts but I've already ducked out of the way. Heart hammering, I kick up, hoping to catch his umbrella hand without doing myself damage. Somehow I do. It summersaults through the air and I borrow Penguin's shoulders to give me the height I need to be sure I will catch it first. Spinning the handle about for a few seconds, I place the umbrella's deadly sharp tip against the criminal's neck.

.

Batman is not happy when I free him. Nor is Robin. Batgirl seems to find the whole situation hilarious. The three heroes stand before me rubbing their wrists. Penguin, tightly handcuffed to his cards table along with his men, is glaring at us but we ignore him. It's pretty easy since I gagged him.

"Magpie, huh?" Robin begins, a childish glint sparkling in his voice.

I nod and flash a blinding smile in his direction.

"It's really nice to meet you, Robin. I'm a big fan of the way you managed to get Batman to act like a father. I've been taking notes."

Confusion shines through despite Robin's eyes being masked. Batgirl glances between Batman and I before stepping forwards and whispering in shock.

"You're…" she begins only to fall silent.

Batman knows the situation is falling out of his control and he hates it. I revel in the bewilderment that is engulfing the room and ignore the glare my father is shooting me.

"Yes." I nod.

Robin is still trying to comprehend what I am implying. Brow furrowing, he uses the silence to make sense of what the rest of us understood. Suddenly laughter begins to curl from the boy wonder's throat and he shakes his head, trying to break his reaction so he could deny my claim.

"You're not…" he begins.

The look on his mentor's, my father's, face tells him that he is denying something as true as day. Slowly shock devours his features. Then anger leaks in and a glare infests the white lenses that cover his eyes.

"Oh, it's okay, Cuckoo." I smile as Robin approaches.

"Magpie." Batman berates.

I roll my eyes and extend my hand to the boy wonder who shakes it, shocked by my calmness.

"I'm Magpie, Batman's biological bird."

"Why didn't you tell me you had a daughter?" Robin hisses, his eyes darting to Batman as he increases the grip on my hand.

I twist myself free in a calculated move and look up at my father's cowl, also waiting for an explanation. Folding my arms across my chest and tapping my foot impatiently, I give the vigilante time to answer. Nothing slips out and I find my attention dropping to Penguin. Before I have chance to bring the criminal onto my side, Robin continues, snapping about how he never kept secrets from Batman. He's lying of course. Everyone has secrets.

"Go on, Batsy, tell him all about me."

"We're not doing this here." Batman snaps, grabbing my arm.

.

Batman takes Robin, Batgirl and I to the Amusement Mile where we settle on the skeleton of a Ferris Wheel. Gotham's night life has mostly staggered of to get some sleep but the city itself is only dozing. With an almost hypnotic grace, the maze of buildings, cars and lights creep about their business. As tempted as I am to just watch it, I feel a trio of masked glares burn away at my costume.

"What are you doing here?"

"Saving your life." I answer.

Batman doesn't even pause. He doesn't need to. He's run all the calculations over in his head and knows exactly what I am going to say.

"What were you doing in Gotham before that?"

I give my answer calmly, adopting a tone I would use if asked about the weather.

"Because I'm two months older than Cuckoo over there."  
Robin growls but any come back is silenced as Batman raises his hand. Batgirl, who wasn't even about to say anything, looks slightly sheepish about it.

"You were in Metropolis for a reason." my father states, dryly.

"Then why wasn't he?" I ask, pointing towards Robin.

Batman knows me. He's probably read every school report and rung my aunt up more times than reasonable, checking up on me. So he knows I'm not going to let any injustice stand. Crime fighting – another genetic mutation from my father's side.

"We can talk about this in the cave. Magpie, Robin, get in the car." Batman growls in his forced voice.

I roll my eyes and cross my arms about to stand my ground. Already Robin has turned tail and started to walk towards the waiting Batmobile. Batgirl is shifting nervously, unsure of what she is meant to do. Flashing her my brightest smile, I tell her it's a family matter and she should probably go. For a moment she looks like she is about to argue but my dad's still brooding and Robin's moaning and I'm a stranger who's shown up with more family drama than anyone else wants.

"I'm going to go home." the red head announces before turning to me. "And you should probably get in the car."


End file.
